


i keep seeing you(again and again)

by n0luv



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, It is, LMAO, Luther Hargreeves Has a Human Body, Luther Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Luther Hargreeves Whump, M/M, Other, Poet Luther Hargreeves, Protective Luther Hargreeves, Time Loop, Time Travel, Whump, dark luther hargreeves, i guess, if u count murder???, is it??, jk im lying to you all its dark, kinda dark??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25788808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n0luv/pseuds/n0luv
Summary: After Luther dies at the hands of The Commission, God offers him a second chance. And another. And another.Decayed by the years of loops and his repeated suicides, God pulls him away and to 2019. Over and over again. As Luther’s sanity slowly fades away and his family dies one by one in each loop, Luther feels he has no choice but to play God’s game.-I see timeloop fics with every one of the siblings except for Luther. Purely self indulgent, I don’t have a specific plot in mind, so drop some ideas in the comments. Not beta-read.
Relationships: Luther Hargreeves & The Hargreeves, The hargreeves - Relationship
Comments: 37
Kudos: 68





	1. but it hurts(all by myself)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [It's What We Do in the Death.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24394924) by [1PB2PB3PB4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1PB2PB3PB4/pseuds/1PB2PB3PB4). 



**Chapter Zero: But It Hurts(All By Myself)**

* * *

It was supposed to be easy.

Well, perhaps not _easy_. Their sister was going insane and she was going to end the world, The Commission was _still_ after them and Luther was totally freaking out. 

People from The Commission were shooting at them and Luther was surprised none of them ahd gotten shot yet.

Luther wishes he didn’t think that. 

Because he’s down with a startling crack and _no one moves_.

Luther is frozen in his spot, eyes wide, still registering _what_ happened. 

Then he realizes Klaus is on the floor, bleeding out, and Luther _isn’t believing anything_ that’s going on; he fully expects Klaus to groan and twitch, move on, get up and spit out a ridiculous comment, but he _doesn’t_.

He’s out cold on the floor and the wood is staining with thick, red liquid.

Allison moves first. She’s at Klaus’s side and by the time Luther shakes himself back to reality, (he’s screaming, banging and shouting in his unmoving body, _“MOVE! PLEASE, MOVE!”_ ) There are simultaneous shots to the remaining four.

Allison dodges, before kneeling on the floor, shirt staining red ( _All Luther can see is red, red—oh red, red was so unapologetically dark and deep and sticky, he couldn’t wash the stain off his hands— it’s his fault, it’s his fault—_ ) and hands firm against her siblings, trying to apply pressure on their wounds. She’s panicking, turning over and between all her hurt family, before, with a painful shot, _Allison was gone too_.

Luther’s vision is blurring and flashing, fading, ( _He sees his body, it lay still, stiff and cold, his insides are gutted and red, for all to see. Luther picks him up, shaking him over and over because he shouldn’t be dead—)_ in and out because all he can see are dead bodies and his _family all_ _gone_.

Colour is slowly draining from his face and the quickening steps behind Luther makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight. He quickly turns, trying to fight the gun, it was pressed cold against the middle of his forehead.

Luther trembles, ( _He never used to tremble, Luther was confident because he was Number One. Not before the accident. His arms shake and shake, his fingers could not stay still anymore and he was a_ monster—) and with one, quick, ear shattering click, _he falls, and though he cannot feel anymore, it hurts._

His vision fades to black. 


	2. one is the loneliest number(worse than two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luther wakes, accompanied with a second chance(and a third, and a fourth and a fif—)
> 
> He tries to make sense of everything, when his second chance(and only one chance of many,) ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a lyric from Three Dog Night’s ‘One’ which I feel is a very Luther song.

**Chapter One: One Is The Loneliest Number(** **Worse Than Two)**

* * *

_Make it **last**._

* * *

There is subtle creaking in the floor and a draft lightly tufts his hair through the window. Light is cast over him through his thin blinds, and it makes him blink, over and over.

Luther attempts to breath, but somethings lodged in his throat. The wall in his airway broke and Luther flinched; the liquid choked him and he hurried up. 

He’s running to the bathroom, knocking whoever was infront of the door away and he closes the door behind him. Luther coughs and chokes and spits inbetween breaths, blood seeping between his teeth. It drips down onto his chin, pajamas and his hands. He can barely register what’s coming out as blood; it’s sticky texture, sticky, thick and _staining_.

Unfortunately for him, he forgot to lock the door. Luther doesn’t notice and continues nearly coughing up his insides. Diego is fully intent on hitting his brother for pushing him out of line and running into the bathroom after Five’s ridiculously long time spent in it, though stops midway. Klaus and Ben confused are as to _why_ he isn’t beating his brother senseless. Diego steps back and his two brothers lean into the marbled bathroom. 

Their brother was currently hunched over the sink, blood dribbling down into it, hands stained with tears and the red liquid. It looked like a murder scene. “H—Hey Luther.. are you alright?” Ben said, wondering what happened.

Luther usually wasn’t sick or hurt; perks of having super strength, they guessed. But this was different.

Blood came out of his throat every few seconds in large coughing fits and his face was gaunt. His hands trembled against the edge of the sink (since when did he tremble? Never.) and he was sweaty. “I’ll go get Mom—“..Luther faces a thin, shaking, red stained, hand towards his siblings, “No. Don’t. I’m fine.”

He’s heaving and most obviously not fine but Ben stops in his tracks. Luther wipes his mouth and chin, then twisting open the sink handles to let the blood flow down the drain. He treads out of the bathroom and into his own room. 

* * *

Luther closed the door, locking it this time. He let’s out a string of curses, all the while his head is throbbing like he got shot— oh.

He did get shot.

Luther got shot, along with the rest of his family.

Guilt showers him like an ice filled bucket and he feels he cannot breath. His family. They were dead. And.. he was _alive_? 

Luther is down onto himself in the mirror. He expected to see his medically enhanced gorilla body taking up most of the room, but was met with his 12 year old form. He frowns, confused and aching.

It.. shouldn’t have been possible. Being alive. Being _12_. His brain just then fully registers who exactly he saw outside the bathroom door; 12 year old Diego, Klaus and Ben. Ben? _Klaus_? Diego? It wasn’t making sense, no, no sense at all. He was alive, a child and his family was alive as well. 

Luther squeezes his eyes shut, trying to remember atleast something from Five’s time travel arguments..

 _”—Luther! Are you even listening?” Luther blinks, “Uh, yes, totally.” Five shakes his head angrily, going back to muttering and drawing on his green bedroom walls, “As I was saying, timeloops. They exist. Let’s hope I don’t get stuck in one.” Luther’s attention finally clears shooting towards Five, “Timeloops? What the_ hell _are timeloops?” Five gives out an annoyedly low groan, though explaining anyways, “Timeloops. An example of one would be that your day keeps repeating. Maybe you die and thats the trigger to repeat. Maybe you go to work and the day restarts. The point is, timeloops are shit—“_

Luther shakes his head; no, this couldn’t be a timeloop. Time travel? But he died. Luther rubs his temples frustratedly, before theres a knock at his door. “Come in!” He yells out, wondering who it was. The door creaks open, straining Luther’s pounding head. It’s Mom. “Luther, dear. . . Ben told me you weren’t feeling well,” She frowns. Luther looks up and behind and her hands gesture towards her. He stood in front of her and a hand leaned against his forehead. “You have a light fever..” She takes him by the arm, pulling him to the infirmary. 

She pats down on the cot, and he sits. She disappears into the back room, coming out with a spoon, bottle of medicine and wet towel. She poured the dark red substance onto the metal spoon, lifting it to his lips, gesturing him to drink.

It was bitter. 

The infirmary stunk of cleaner and medicine. A fresh smell wafted in and out, similar to that of a hospital. Luther watches the room, as if in slow motion, remembering the many times he and his siblings spent in here. After missions, after training. After a particularly rough game of tag, falling down the stairs, scraping a knee in the yard. 

His mother is back, and she lays the wet towel on his head, telling him to take a nap and then he can leave later. Luther drifts off into sleep.

* * *

 _Luther just finished knocking out three men in front of him and he turned, ready to check on his brother, albeit he could definitely handle himself, he wanted to check on him like a_ good _leader._

_And he assumed._

_That was his greatest mistake._

_He assumed that Ben would be fine taking out so many men at once, even when he told everyone it hurt, and stretched, and pulled at him when The Horror came out._

_So when Luther turns around, he was right, Ben easily took out five men._

_But he lay on the floor, red seeping out._

_Luther sprints over in panic, knees sliding against the cold tile._

_His brother was dead._

_The red gushed onto his hands and staining his clothes; it was sticky and wet and his brother was_ dead _. Luther suddenly feels dizzy with the metallic smell of blood and the news of his brother; his head throbs and his body is threatening to pass out but the sight in front of him was enough to keep him awake._

_Ben’s abdomen was gutted out from The Horror, his skin ripped in places it attempted to come out from. Ben was pale. His body was limp and still. Luther cries out, “HELP! Please! An—ANYONE! ALLISON! KLAUS! PLEASE—HELP!” his voice echoes against the large banquet hall walls and he can do nothing but sob and shake his brother, his hands stained red with blood he wishes was his instead._

_The large metal doors opened and there were his siblings, all sweaty, and tired with grime and exhaustion. “Luther, where wer—“ Allison’s eyes widened and she ran over, eyes spilling tears already._

_Diego came next, stumbling back from the scene, “N-N—NO!” He’s fallen back to the floor, hand cupped to his face, eyebrows ridden with fear, sadness and finally anger. He pulls Luther up from the ground, hands nearing his neck, but settling for the fabric below, scrunching it up threateningly._

_“Y-Yo-YOU d-duh-duh-did th-th-“ His mouth contorts and he cant get the words out, perhaps from mourning or anger but his fingers point to Ben lying on the marble._

_Luther’s unshed tears spill out over himself and onto Diego’s hands. “I-I— I thoug—ht he would b—be f-fine!..” Luther stumbles and chokes on his words; spit and bile come up and he forces it down, no matter the burning in his airway._

_Klaus is last. He walks in nonchalantly, making a joke and stopping midway when he sees Ben. He treads back, blinking over and over trying and hoping so bad for it not to be real. A hand cups his mouth, then his eyes and ears and he cries out in sobbing recognition. His ears pound and ring and he can’t help but fall onto his knees at the sight of his dead brother. He’s shaking._

_Cries echo in the Museum Banquet Hall. Luther can’t help but think, it’s my fault, my fault— I killed him, killed my brother, It’s my fault because I am Number One— and he wishes it was him on the floor gutted and red because his siblings didn’t like him much anyways and because Ben did not deserve to die as much as Luther did._

* * *

Luther jolts awake in shock; he’s sweaty and still on the infirmary cot.

He sits up and pulls himself over the thin mattress, wondering why it was so quiet in the house. He treads out into the kitchen, because it smelt _absolutely_ delicious(a voice in his head tells him he shouldn’t; he ignores it,) and he spots his mother pulling treats out of the oven.

“Oh, you’re up! Have a cookie, dear.” She hands one that was cooled down from the baking sheet. “Where’s everybody else?” Luther asks, eyeing his surroundings curiously and still sleepily. His mother hums absentmindedly, “While you were sleeping, they got a mission call. Your father said you needed to stay here.” Luther winces, because it didn’t sound much like his father.

Or he just became more of a hard ass as the years went by, because at age 19, Luther came down with a burning fever. His father still sent him away on a mission, because, “Being sick is no excuse not to go on missions, Number One!” Luther was surprised he could even move. He snaps a piece off his cookie, nibbling at it. Nothing much happens.  
  
He goes about the house, roaming and rediscovering his home(could he even call it that?) once more. 

Luther, after some time, strides back into his mothers domain in the kitchen. She has the phone(a very old one, pearl blue with still glass covering,) close to her ear, in a hushed tone as an urgent, demanding voice yells from the other end. 

It certainly strikes Luther as odd, so he sees to ask her afterwards. He doesn’t get an afterwards, as he collapses on the blue tiles, blurring and blackening vision falling unto him peacefully.

The last thing he hears is his fathers frustrated outcry, the plunk of hanging up and a dial tone, released from the unplugged phone, as his mother rushes to his aid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, though that’s really the point for the plot!
> 
> Longer chapters will be expected in the future!
> 
> Now, Luther Headcanon(is this a real canon fact?) of the chapter!: Luther, oh poor Luther, has got extreme body dysmorphia. It’s to be expected, because in his eyes, before the accident, he was decently good looking. Tall, blonde hair, blue eyes, fit body. Now he’s just a large monkey with a human head.
> 
> [DISCLAIMER: some of these headcanons will be implemented into the story, but i wont be telling you which ones]


	3. no matter how you tossed the dice(it had to be)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luther wakes, once more. His siblings notice things, and Luther swears that the mission will go better this time.
> 
> Chapter title is from Gerard Way’s cover of Happy Together by The Turtles.

**Chapter Two: No Matter How You Tossed The Dice(It Had To Be)**

* * *

_You again?_ And _the brother? God, just leave!_

_”You know, that’s funny since you’re—“_

_LEAVE!_

* * *

Luther felt himself hit the ground.

Hard.

“This is unacceptable, Number One! Leaders should not be defeated by their subordinates! Continue with training and cease this foolishness immediately!” Clipped steps fade away into the background. 

Luther’s blinking hard, still hurt and seeing spots in his vision. He pushed himself up to see Diego’s smug expression. Diego’s eyes meet his and they narrow, disgustedly, and leave. Luther groans; that hit was going to leave a bruise on his back. 

Then he snaps into reality. What the _hell_ happened. For one, he was eating a treat in the kitchen, then everything just.. went to black. Then, he was decked and pushed to the ground during training. A large mirror sat in the living room hall as he slowly walked to his room. Looking into it, he (fortunately,) wasn’t a large, living science project, nor a baby faced 12 year old, but his 14 year old self. 

Shit. 

Did time fast forward when he passed out? He seriously didn’t know anythingabout what happened the last two times he blacked out. Was this a timeloop? No, he was 14, not restarting a day when he was 12. There’s shuffling in the hallway leading to the dining room and soon enough, Klaus and Ben popped out from behind the wall. “I heard Diego landed a hit on you during training! He’s been gloating about it upstairs for about.. ten minutes now?” Klaus says and Ben’s halfway between laughing and hitting Klaus. 

It’s surreal seeing Klaus and Ben up close, rather than muted trailing voices. He blinks, as their cheerful and teasing expressions play back in his head, “Sure, yeah. He’s getting better.” Luther absentmindedly responds, walking away from the two. It was harder talking to them than just watching them. 

He shudders as the cheerful playback of their expressions faded into red splattered and pale corpses. Staining marble and wood floor. Thickly oozing.

Luther shuts his eyes once more. 

* * *

That was. . . odd. Klaus looked to Ben, who had the same confused expression as he did. Usually, if Diego ever _did_ land a hit on him, he’d just ignore their playful taunting and leave. But he didn’t. He admitted, holy crap, he _admitted_ his defeat.

Luther was acting off. There was a time when they were, what, 12? He was weird then, too, waking up with blood spilling all over him _and_ opting out of a mission. Ben just tells him to brush it off since their ‘fearless leader’ was probably just sulking about earlier. 

* * *

Everybody was noticing things about Luther. Their brother used to hold his head high, shoulders square and confident, always playing leader because he was Number One. Now, he acted as far as he could get to that leader persona. Luther was never chubby, no, always fit, but he got thin. Too thin. A shadow hung over him like a storm cloud. 

Luther stood hunched and small. He sat down trying to take as little space as possible, like it was a habit or something. Which, it certainly _wasn’t,_ because just the day before, on a mission, he made it his personal goal to piss them off with his Number One bullshit. It was hard to see him at times other than meals, and even then he seemed far away and out of it. One night, Klaus overheard Allison, Diego and Luther arguing in the bathroom. . .

_“What the hell’s been going on with you?!”_

_“Nothing—Allison,_ nothing _is going on with me, how many times do I have to tell you that?! I’m FINE!”_

 _”Nothing wrong? Huh, you sure big guy, are you absolutely_ sure _you’re fine with getting sucker punched by pathetic Number Two? What the hell even was that?!_ _”_

_”I’m telling you, I have no regard for— for our petty bullcrap from when we were children! Now, I don’t want to fight—“_

_”Don’t want to FIGHT?! ARE YOU SERIOUS?! JUST DAYS AGO, YOU WOULD BE COMPLETELY FINE WITH GETTING ONTO WHAT YOU CALL_ PETTY BULLCRAP—“ 

_“DIEGO! STOP YELLING—“_

_”Diego! Allison is right, Dad’s going to hear us—!”_

_”OH, NOW YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT DAD, HUH? WELL HOW ABO—“_

_“I HEARD A RUMOUR YOU DIDN’T SHOUT THIS WHOLE ARGUMENT!”_

Klaus walked away. Partly because he didn’t want to hear anymore yelling, partly because he wanted to smoke something.

* * *

He was sixteen, and Luther knew what sixteen meant. Sixteen meant dead brother, uncaring father, mourning siblings and guilt, lord, all the guilt was piled onto him and he _deserved_ it because he killed his brother.

Luther wants to change this, because it was _Ben_. Sweet, sweet Ben. Kindhearted, shy, bookloving Ben, the Ben who hated using his powers and going on missions because he was the _only_ one who had to kill, not knock out. 

The mission was the third one since they turned sixteen, on a crisp December 14th. It was a museum with a banquet hall and beautiful statues and art. Robbers had planned to steal an expensive painting and a few other smaller, but still expensive ones. 

The plan was supposed to be easy; Diego and Allison get in through the side window and take out the robbers from the left wing to the center. Klaus was lookout on the center east hall, and he could be alone because he knew how to fight. Luther and Ben took the right wing into the banquet hall, where they were planning to take the art.

It was supposed to be _easy_. Easy, easy, easy. And it was. Usually, Ben would be able to take out the robbers _easily_. But he never told anyone else that he ripped his stomach the week before. He didn’t tell anyone his wounds were still fresh and aching. And no one seemed to notice at every touch someone gave him or hit landed during training caused him to flinch and curl up into himself and stay in his room for the rest of the day.

Ben rips himself up in that banquet hall, and Luther doesn’t know what to do. This time he’ll know.

And he _will_ save his brother.

Even at the cost of his life, because a pathetic leader dead was better than a loving brother dead. 

* * *

_The remaining five of them; which would_ stay _a pitiful five until they were 30, all stood infront of the cold, black coffin laying shamelessly in the snow._

_”It wasn’t anybody’s fault—“ Vanya says, breaking silence, before Diego faces her,_

_”How would you know, Vanya? You weren’t even on the mission!” Vanya is taken aback and soon enough her newly dried and red eyes filled with sopping wet tears._

_“Nice going, asshole.” Luther bites out bitterly to Diego._

_”What? We were_ all _thinking it!” Allison’s eyes widen, and she grinds her teeth before narrowing them in scandal,_

_”So you’re thinking, Diego? That’s a first!” Allison cries out in incredulousness before turning to leave,_

_“Screw you!”_

_”Hey! Dad was right, we should’ve done more, this didn’t have to_ happen _!” Luther yells to Diego, as the he ran after the retreating two._

_Life after Ben was not normal. And it would never return to the same as before. Diego, who was always angry before, got worse. Every word that came out was either an insult or angry comment.  
_

_Klaus buried himself in drugs and alchohol, sneaking out every other night and coming back smashed before dawn._

_Vanya and Allison busied themselves, with violin and acting._

_Luther busied himself too, just not in his hobbies. He trained everyday, harder and longer than the others, who strayed from working with their abilities and wishing for their eighteenth to come faster._

_Luther trains because he did wrong, because he could have saved Ben, had he been stronger. He trains until he tears a muscle, pulls a leg, breaks a bone, because he needs to. Leaders don’t cry. Leaders don’t let their family die. Leaders don’t let their team down._

_Luther gulps down a metallic taste in his mouth, eyes moist from tears or sweat flushing from his forehead. He’d asked his father what he could do to be a better leader, be a better person, be stronger._

_He didn’t respond._

_Luther is sometimes close to breaking down. Solemn expressions from his mother, even when her iron faced smile is always plastered and he’s probably imagining things make him want to cry, let it all out. But he doesn’t. Because his family already has enough of it. Luther takes it all in and imagines a jar._

_It’s not very big, nor very small. Mediumly sized. Perfect for him. He takes all the hurt and piles it into the jar. He, although, only has one jar. It cracks under the weight of the hurt. Luther patched the jar up mediocrely. With tape or glue. But it always cracks again._

_Though, it never breaks. Luther won’t let it. That’s what being a leader is. Iron faced and placated is all Luther can be._

_It is all Luther can be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luther Headcanon of the Chapter: Luther is a poet! He doesn’t consider himself very good, just writing his feelings and thing’s he’d seen on the moon that day.
> 
> He looks back on the material he wrote, and finds himself with a reason to be greatful for his father’s sudden death and funeral.


	4. mumble a reply(followed by a lie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luther hasn’t spent much more than a week on Earth.
> 
> No one notices in the main timeline, anyways, but that seems to be different here.

**Chapter Three: Mumble A Reply(Followed By A Lie)**

* * *

He’s hearing ringing.

Ringing.

Irritating ringing.

Ringing.

His fingers cut deep into his palms, trying to ease the _ringing_.

Ringing.

He cannot breath. 

His throat is tightened like a loose screw.

Ringing.

He gasps for air but all he can feel is water. He swallows thick globs of water, over and over and he wants to stop but _it won’t let him_.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Silence.

“—Luther!” Luther blinks, over and over, releasing his nails from digging into his palms any longer, realizing he can _breath_ and that there is no more _ringing_. Klaus is shaking him and Luther’s vision has faded from twisted to clear.

In front of him is Klaus, sixteen year old Klaus, eyebrows creased worriedly and mouth slipping from a smile to a frown. “—Yes? What?” Klaus’s face visibly softens at Luther’s confused voice. “Sorry! You were just, you know, staring into space.” Luther looks around; they were at home, in the kitchen. Luther was stirring a cup of tea, hitting the spoon ever so slightly on the glass, over and over ( _Ringing._ )

”I got distracted, sorry for worrying you.” Luther says absentmindedly, stirring his green tes once more. Ben, in the background sends a look only the two of them would get to Klaus and he nods. “It’s alright, bro!” Klaus gives him a falsely cheerful tone before sitting back down with Ben.

As Luther leaves with his mug, he can hear accumulated whispers behind him, either from Ben and Klaus or _something else._

_Ringing_.

* * *

It’s the day before _the mission_.

Luther can’t do anything but plan, and plan over and over; try and want so badly to _rewrite_ history for better worth. 

He paces in his room, muttering incoherent words, hands in his hair, pulling and tugging, annoyed and agitated. It reminds him, a little tendril in the back of his head, of Five.

The floor creaks continuously with each step he takes and it angers him to no end. He swears he pulled out a floorboard earlier and discarded it, but there is no hole in the floor. 

He is _not_ paranoid. If he was, (which he isn’t!) he would have good reason to be. On his desk and bed are papers, written on neatly before conspiring into messy, unreadable scribbles, crumpled and ripped in his room.

His mind is whirling, swirling, with ideas and how to protect Ben, how to save him, how to help him live. The door creaks open, similarly to how the floorboards did and Luther doesn’t notice.

”L—Luther?” Luther releases his hands from his hair, resulting in it sticking up up distastefully. He turns to the door, and there stood Ben, shyly asking for him in the doorframe. “Yes?” Luther asks, still mumbling things under his breath and not noticing the inappropriate state of his room, “Are you.. alright? Luther?” He waves a hand to his brother, “Perfectly fine.” There is faint ringing behind him. And whispering. Mumbling. Muttering. Giggling. 

“Are you sure beca—“ He shushes his brother. Ringing. Whispering. Mumbling. Muttering. Giggling. 

“I’m _fine_.” Ben stands his ground, “No, Luther, I don’t think you’re fine—“

“Ben. I am, _perfectly_ — perfectly, good, great, and fine. You don’t need to worry. You should be worrying about yourself—“

”Luther! Stop, why— you need to rest, you’ve been up all day—“

Luther’s reached his limit. He grabs the door from leaning on the wall. He pushes a finger into his shorter brothers chest, “I. Am. Fine.” Luther shuts the door.

“I’m fine. Fine. Fine.” He mumbles, hands pulling at his hair once more, there is ringing, whispering, mumbling, muttering and giggling. He huffs, inhale, exhale, and the sounds cease slightly.

Inhale. Exhale.

* * *

He slept for roughly four hours that night. He wasn’t forcing himself to stay awake, no, that would be foolish. Just, things, were getting in the way. He didn’t know if his siblings were awake and the walls were too thin but he could hear whispering and giggling all through the night.

He woke a number of times, choking on his own breath and needing to calm. He three up twice and cried three times. His eyes are puffed with the ugly sobbing. It was the anniversary. And he was trying to stop that event that caused for such an anniversary, from ever happening.

It was breakfast. But it was a Sunday, which meant they could speak, since their father wasn’t coming. 

His siblings are eying him suspiciously and warily but everytime they try to ask, he waves their concerns away much like the other night.

The mission alarm goes off in its irritatingly head banging fashion and Luther nearly zooms off into his room rushing to get his suit on. His siblings exchange knowing looks that only they would recognize.

They’ve infiltrated the museum without notifying the robbers and everything is going as planned. Luther makes sure everything goes the same way, but when he and Ben take down the banquet hall robbers he makes sure he will _help_ Ben.

And he does, and they take every last one down. He and Ben share a highfive and Luther can do nothing but smile and he is smiling so _much_.

The mission went off without so much as a snag in their plans. And Ben was _alive_.

But that did not cease his actions to protect, or atleast help, Ben. And it worked. The six of them were seventeen and a half, edging closer and closer to eighteen. Ben was applying to Princeton for Biophysics.

And they were getting closer and _closer_ to happiness and normality.

But things in life never did stay the same.

And happy was much too an expensive fruit to bear for the Hargreeves. 

* * *

Luther was breaking down. Kneeling in front of his brothers black coffin, unlike what he did all those years ago; placating himself and leading his soldiers with an iron face.

No.

He was crumbling in front of them. 

Luther is banging his brothers _empty_ coffin. It’s hollow and his banging and shaking reverts back unto himself but it doesnt matter, because it seemed happy was a luxury only reserved for those not him. 

He tasted the sweet, sweet, nectar of happiness before it was ripped from his hands. 

Luther’s tears coat the smooth gold lined casket. 

His siblings all watch him. 

Ringing.

There will always be ringing.

But now more so explosives than before.

* * *

_”BEN! DO—DON’T GO, PLEASE, ITS NOT WORTH IT!”_

_”_ It is _worth it, Luther. We—_ I _, will be saving people. And isn’t that what we were trained to do?”_

_”Ben, don’t—Please, I—I’ll go—“_

_”You won’t be able to disarm the bomb, Luther. We both know only I can.”_

_He shakes Luther off, walking into the smoking warehouse. Two sets of arms drag Luther as he screams at the building, pulling him from the exploding vicinity like they did with the others._

_And the building shatters into a thousand pieces. Everything is silent, before it is nothing but ringing.  
_

_The ringing always taunted him._

* * *

His family copes similarly to how they did before, although the death and time wasn’t the same.

Acting, violin, drugs.

Luther strays from training, or even looking at his father. Uncharacteristic, he knew, but he was going to restart anyways. He, once again, was the last one at home. Like before, Vanya left first, on their eighteenth birthday. Then Klaus, followed by Allison. Diego moved out last month.

He didn’t know what was stopping him from just, going on and ending it. 

Luther doesn’t know what triggers it and he really, really wishes he did, because he can’t stand any of— of, _this_ anymore. He was too weak to kill himself but couldn’t bother finding out what did him in.

He always considers it, because he died the first time around. But everytime he attempts it, he either stops because, lord, he was _killing himself_. Or, Dad or Grace saved him and he needed to make an excuse for _why were you taking so many pills?_ or _why did you fall off the roof, into the garden?_

Luther knows his father knows and had intervened with his attempts, failing each time. Luther tells him he is fine and does not need help. His father doubtfully and wrongly falls for it. Luther guesses he’s just waiting for it to work.

Luther wastes his nights away and keeps thinking, _I need to restart_. He needs to save them; save who? Save _anyone_.

And Luther gets his wish.

It’s a humid July night, and Luther sits on the top of the roof. To his right, is a bottle of pills. To his left is a knife. Again, like every night, he considers and either backs away or falls through.

He sighs, he didn’t know what to do. He was stuck in a shitty time loop, for fucks sake. Every time he died he came back older than before. He doesn’t know _what_ triggers it and it’s showing no signs of stopping. 

He eyes the concrete sidewalk warily. He stands up on the edging, bracing himself.

Before he gets the chance to fall, his vision fades into a spotty black, and he’soff.

* * *

It stings, lord, it stings so bad and he pushes himself deeper into the water to try and ease the pain but he forgets to breath and chokes out. 

His blood has mixed with his tears in the water and it’s salty. He does not know if it’s the blood or his endless sobbing.

He definitely considered pumping himself full of sweet ectasy and heroine for a braceless and high death but he doesn’t, because he remembers his brother who reprimanded him for doing whatever he got his hands on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon/canon of the Chapter: Luther, as presented in this series and in this particular chapter, is suffering from paranoia, anxiety, anger, perceptual distortions, obsessive thoughts and slight psychosis, as rightfully effected from spending four years on the moon. 
> 
> Fifteen days of solitary confinement is considered inhumane and torturous.
> 
> Imagine, roughly 1500 days.


	5. his many missions(which seemed not enough)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luther spends more than one life, dying at the hands of others(and himself.) 
> 
> He tries to learn a few things, but goes maybe, more, than a little, crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE; Aug, 14, 2020, 10:14PM CDT(Central Daylight Time)
> 
> Rewrote some stuff, my writing is choppy and I don’t tend to draft it and look at it later, much rather I post and reread later. Odd, I know.

**Chapter Four: His Many Missions(Which Seemed Not Enough)**

* * *

_Seriously?  
_

* * *

Luther braces himself, for the crushingly uncomfortable feeling of being back and it hits. Not that bad this time.

He hopes he’s not sucker punched this time around.

And he isn’t, though this startled him more than before. He awakes and liquid is lodged in his throat once more, threatening to spill.

Luther, as an automatic reflex, runs to the bathroom knocking whoever was in front, over once more. Are you seeing a pattern? 

He’s spitting, a little more rushed than his previous time in this age and the door creaks, because he forgot to close it, much less lock it. “Luther, you bastard! I’m going to ki— What the hell?” Luther swipes at his mouth, and turns to Diego. “What?” His caustic attitude makes Diego back off, as it was uncharacteristic for him to seethe words like such poison.

Luther stalks off back into his room, three sets of eyes trailing him. 

Whispering is all that he can hear and he dreadfully doesn’t know what is real and what is illusions of hearsay in his mind.

Pre-Timeloop Luther would deny his incapacitated mental state. Post-Loop Luther bitterly acknowledges this between switching and time that he can do nothing but wait for the next abrupt death or event that pushes him to the edge.

Luther acknowledges his inability to be candor with his feelings and knows he isn’t in the right state of mind, but he cannot use these excuses to drift off in the peaceful years of the Academy; as much as he’d like to.

He needs to live long enough to see the next five years if he’d like to stay relaxed. 

* * *

He wasn’t getting anywhere in this life. Time was moving slowly. Much too slow for his liking. He was trying to save Ben, not live solemnly in the Academy. 

It was such an event that did drive him over. 

Finding his father’s pistol was not hard. Shooting himself was harder.

* * *

_Oh._

* * *

He’s sucker punched straight in the nose. It doesn’t hurt as bad as he thought it would(a gun hurt worse.)

His father seems to be criticizing him on his work, but the hit warbles everything. He lays on the floor for a moment, just to recollect himself. _Alright. Up I go._

Luther stands, painfully dragging himself to the infirmary to check if he’s broke anything. Klaus stops him, reciting the same teasing as before. This time, Luther isn’t shocked by the whole.. alive thing.

He waves his siblings off, squeezing his eyes shut. His head was ringing and his eyes stung. 

Then, unfortunately, it all faded, once again.

* * *

_Humans seem to be distastefully frail. I remember making them stronger than this._

* * *

Alright.

That has _got_ to be the shortest moment he’s gotten. If he was correct.. he should be 16? Perhaps? Luther hopes it’s before Ben.

His eyes flutter open and ears awaken, unblocking towards the yelling directed at him. Brown eyes meet blue and Luther unfortunately knows what moment this is. 

“—pathetic _bastard_! It’s the anniversary and you can’t bare to spare even a _moment_ of your time to visit his—“

”Let me go. Drop me. Just, _unhand_ me.”

Diego double backs at the demanding tone of Luther’s voice. It eerily reminded him of Five, no dismissal of the similarity in their features despite clashing color attributes. 

He does as asked, dropping him onto the wood paneling. Luther lands on two feet, straightening his collar and readjusting his tie. “Now, where were we?” He tilts his head at Diego. He’d been getting better at handling the shock factor and situation control. 

Diego’s eyes redirect themselves angrily at Luther, huffing through his nose. Luther could practically see the steam flushing out of his ears. “I was just _saying,_ that you should have the common decency to visi—“ Luther raises a hand dismissively to Diego’s face, “Already did. Left the petunias near the statue and the candle near the grave.”

Luther didn’t spare a moment for Diego’s confusion, instead making clipped steps to the roof. He sits, desperately wishing for a cigarette. When did he start smoking, again? He needed to rest, just for a moment and restart. He needed 14. Wait a few years. Actually survive.

The door to the roof unlocks itself and Luther turns, expecting to see Allison.

It’s Klaus.

He seems to be equally as shocked as him. In hand is a cigarette lighter and the other a needle. He squints at Luther and Luther eyes him suspiciously.

Klaus sits next to Luther on the cold concrete, handing him a cigarette from his pocket. Before Luther can speak, Klaus interrupts, “Let me shove this crap in my arm, and I won’t tell Dad you smoke up here.”

He sighs; Luther didn’t really want to condone his brothers drug habit. Though, he could restart before it gets too bad. Luther nods resignedly, taking the cigarette and lighter. 

“I didn’t know you sat up here.”

Klaus shakes his head, “Only on the anniversaries.”

”Ah.” He lights his cigarette and Klaus shoves the stick in his arm.

”One day, that’s going to get real bad.” Luther points out. Klaus waves his suspicions away.

”I’ll be fine. You should worry about,” He gestures to the lit cigarette, “—yourself. Don’t let it get to you. I’ll be fine, because I was _made_ for this shit. It was practically giving itself up to me.” Luther snorts, thinking of present-day Klaus’s struggle to get sober without aching temptations mocking him at every turn. 

“You seem different today.” Klaus says, absentmindedly. 

“How do you know what’s different and whats not?” Luther says audaciously. Klaus chuckles a dry, humourless laugh. “Maybe I don’t know everything about you, Spaceboy.”

”Maybe none of you do..” Luther mumbles, turning to Klaus, who was about to fully push the drugs in. With a slow, agonizing force, it’s fully in. And Klaus’s eyes go back.

Klaus shakes for a moment, eyes closed and rolled back, before laying flat on the roof concrete. “K—Klaus? Are you— What’s going on—“

Those were Luther’s last words, before everything crumbled black.

* * *

_You’ve gotten some more information, atleast._

* * *

This was driving him crazy.

Absolutely _crazy_.

Klaus was the goddamn trigger.

He could not help but give himself some time to.. get sorted.

He didn’t do a very good job of it.

Luther’s grabbing his twin by the collar, yelling and backing him into the wall behind him. Five could blink away whenever he wanted but the topic of this argument was too _valuable._

”God, fucking _dammit_ , Five, I am stuck in a shit time loop and I’m a fucking thirty year old in a twelve year old body. I know your crap ass hasn’t been stuck for fourty years yet, but tell me, right now, how the hell do I get out of this?!” His finger digs into his brothers chest painfully. Luther knows this is completely futile but he needs to _rant_.

He will just restart in an hour.

He does, though not with the gun this time; with Klaus’s temazepam, actually.

Ironic. 

* * *

_What the_ hell _is wrong with you?_

* * *

Luther is tired. He wants to go back, apocalyptic or not. He’s died too many times to count, killed himself for half of them. He’s spent three, almost four, years doing this crap.

He sighs, ducking, as his vision clears. He lands a kick in his brothers legs and his father nods. Real fourteen year old Luther would practically be in a high for _months_. 

Luther walks slowly out into the hallway leading to the living room from the training room. He didn’t like to think of himself as one for being emotionally disturbed or mentally impotent but his last life was him falling asleep and overdosing.

He _could_ try drowning.

Luther spent a day. It was better than his previous records of an hour, thirty minutes or ten minutes. 

He can just aim for the next 14.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to write more at night.
> 
> Luther Headcanon of the Chapter: Luther paints. He doesn’t take much pride in it, superstrength preventing him from making accurate prints. 
> 
> Though, atleast he didn’t use to shake.


	6. locked in here forever(cant just say goodbye?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luther wakes up before he can make more bad decisions and things go a little better than last time.
> 
> Until they don’t.

**Chapter Five: Locked In Here Forever(Can’t Just Say Goodbye?)**

* * *

_Don’t be surprised._

* * *

His eyes flutter open, strained against the change of light. He drops whatever he was holding. A glass bottle, it seemed. He looked down to the shattered elements on the floor and the sticky substance that splattered with it. 

“Luther!” Luther turns to see his brother walking in, rope on his shoulder, calling out for him. Klaus eyes him, obviously confused to the mess on the floor. “Ar—Are you _drinking_?” Luther shrugs, eying the glass, “I _think so_?” Klaus double backs, “You _think_ so?” Luther blinks, before nodding and gesturing at the glass on the floor. “What did you need me for?” 

Klais ignored Luther, spectating the scene in front of him, “You busted into _Dad’s_ liquor cabinet! He’s gonna be so _pissed_.” Klaus says, and Luther turned behind him, where the cabinets were indeed hanging open, “I _did_ break into his liquor cabinet.” He trails off, “I don’t remember doing this the first time around..” Luther mumbles as Klaus looks from the glass up to him, “What’s up, Luther? Drinking and partying seems to be a little overdue for you, right?” Klaus asks.

Luther nods absentmindedly before answering, “I _think_ I was drinking because of _Dad_?” Luther narrows his eyes, trying to remember the events of that day the first time around, ”He didn’t open my moon packages, I guess? Sent me to the moon or whatever.” He says, blasé. Klaus’s eyes widen slightly, opening his mouth, before shutting it. “Are, are you _alright,_ Luther?” Luther tilts his head confusedly. “Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Klaus snorts, seeming amused but there is no humor in it. His head snaps to an empty pocket of air and Klaus nods to it. “Hey, big guy—Care to, uh, spend some time with your dear brother?” Klaus brings his hands together, trying to seem persuasive. Luther weighs his options, spend some time with his brother, the trigger, who he’s seen die twice, or go and save the world. Luther shrugs, he can just _restart_ later. 

He nods and Klaus visibly brightens, though nervously eyeing the empty space in the corner. 

* * *

That’s how Luther found himself in the living room, patting his brother softly. It was after they went out around town, doing what Klaus found to be fun, with Luther’s occasional worried responses. Klaus refused going to any raves, clubs or bars. Luther supposed he wanted to get _properly_ sober. 

Luther sits, laying somewhat uncomfortably on the couch, Klaus laying on his shoulder, sniffing every few minutes. He wasn’t on anything, but he certainly seemed out of it. Crying, spacing out, calling out a man’s name (Dave.) Luther could do nothing but pat him every few moments to calm him and try to get him to stop crying. Klaus fell asleep. 

Luther got up, carefully laying his brother on a pillow and throwing a thin blanket over him. He roamed the house, hands gracing the stairway banister. He was just there the other day, just not in present time. Luther eyes the posters on the wall, words inciting and pictures showing, things like ‘gouge’ or ‘disarm’.

How sweet.

The house door opens and Luther can hear two distinct voices, Allison and Diego. Back and forth banter, a third, softer, annoyed voice and fast steps. Luther peaks downstairs before going down the staircase.

They don’t seem to notice him until he’s in the living room. Diego doesn’t spare him a glance, instead going to find Mom. Allison gives him a strained smile, or was that a grimace? Either way, Five was hurt. “What happened?” Luther asked curiously. “He got shot and stupidly, didn’t tell us until he passed out.”

Luther eyes his brother solemnly. 

* * *

The three of them stood in the doorway, watching their mother patch up a sleeping Five. He looked peaceful. Luther strayed from the conversation his siblings were having, instead finding the sky outside more interesting. This was one of the only times he could think properly. 

Why was he brought back to 2019? Was he taking too many chances? Too many lives? Could things not be changed, no matter how many times he killed himself? No matter how many times he died, instead, for Ben, no matter how many times he’d lived just to have his family taken away again? No matter ‘bad guys’ he killed just to let Ben be alive and die later? 

What was his purpose, in this? Save the world? Save his family? Live to see another day? He didn’t know, for the life of him. His first go around at life ended with him and his family dying and him being stuck in this loop.

His second round killed Klaus. His third saved Ben, but ultimately killed him all the same. His fourth started him killing himself, his fifth was too weak and died, his sixth let him see the joy of his brother OD’ing, his seventh pinned Five to a wall and passed on pills, his eighth drowned himself.

What was to say he wouldn’t do it all over again. He knew what it was. 2019. Seeing the next day, _with_ his family, was four days away. Was he going to wake up, dropping that bottle of whiskey, everytime he died? 

Diego and Allison stalk down the stairs, still talking, not acknowledging him. Luther turns away from the two, eyes trailing the barely visible stars in the midnight sky. 

* * *

Klaus wandered the kitchen, pouring coffee into cups, one presumably for Luther; Luther shoved it over to his side, before Five walked in. His eyes at Luther, taking the teacup. Luther lean back slightly in his chair, eyes watching Klaus. 

Klaus was supposed to find him at the rave, though Luther didn’t go out. He’s been making changes in the timeline. He didn’t remember everything from the rave. Luther blinks, mug of tea set down in front of him. He sipped it. It was silent in the kitchen. 

“Jesus, who do I gotta kill to get a decent cup of coffee?” Five muttered, setting the cup down. Luther snorts, shaking his head. Five’s attention redirected to him. “There’s something different about you.” Five says, suspicious. Luther turns, as Klaus’s trailing eyes found its way to them.

“What’s different?” Luther says, impassive. Five’s eyes narrowed, eyebrows raised, “You stand higher. Confident. Not the obnoxious confident when we were kids. _Eerily_.. arrogant. You can handle people. What the _hell_ happened?” Five’s voice was lilted, caustically off. His voice went low, eyes unblinking, “Tell me. Now.” He was being paranoid. Luther tilted his head. “Alcohol.” He says, thinly smiling at his brother. 

Five seems to be put off by that, head shaking, “Cut the crap, Luther.” Luther nodded, “Nothing. Nothing at all.” Luther says, in feigned admittance. His hands wave in front of Five, as to show he had nothing to hide. 

Klaus watched the exchange, eyes flitting between the both of them. Ben sat, as Klaus stood, watching as well. Luther definitely wasn’t.. himself. After finding those moon packages. Like a whole different person. Five’s eyes burned into Luther, in a _I’m watching you_ way.

* * *

He needed his father’s handgun. The one from his fourth. “Klaus. You know where Dad’s handgun was? Is it still in his desk?” Luther asks, exploring the house and finding himself in Klaus’s room. “L—Luther, what—It’s still in his desk but what do you need it—“ Luther cuts Klaus off, walking away to his father’s office.

Klaus gets up from his bed, running towards him, “Luther!” Klaus catches up to him in the office, where Luther was checking all the cabinets. In the left drawer is the silver gun. “Luther, what do you need it for.” Luther cocks the gun, inspecting it, before answering. “It’s..” He trails off, “nothing.” Klaus raises a brow. “Alright. Self defense. Last time Cha-Cha and Hazel came I wasn’t as strong as I thought.” Luther admits. Klaus sighs, but Luther’s already left the room. 

The real reason he needed the gun was if he needed (more like wanted,) to restart. Nothing out of the ordinary. Currently, he was trying to save his sister. If he _was_ correct she’d be driving to.. Leonard, slash, Harold’s cabin.

He could save her from being slit in the throat. The again, it could end up not happening at all, because he’d already started making changes. “Luther!” Five’s voice was heard behind him. He turns, and spots Five, with Klaus in tow. “You need to come with us.” He says. Luther sighs resignedly.

“Where were you?” Five asks, eyes targeting behind Luther. Behind Luther was Diego. “Jail.” Diego threw off his coat, before Luther caught his eye, “Good, you’re all here.” Diego stops, fixing his shirt straps,

“Allison’s in danger.”

* * *

The four of them piled and crammed into their father’s old car, Five driving. He wasn’t particularly slow, but he wasn’t the fastest either. Luther sighs. 

He knew they were going to pull up to Allison’s almost dead body. He squeezes his eyes shut, fingers digging cresently into his rough palms. He needed to cease the ringing. It always came back to haunt him. On the moon. During loops. 

He wasn’t going mad. Definitely not. Just.. stressed. Peeved. These loops weren’t anything fun, either. He inhales. Exhales. Over and over, until he can peacefully and safely release his palms from his nails. The ringing was much less than a tick in the back of his head.

Five drove and drove, for hours, until they finally parked at the shady cabin house in the woods. His siblings rush over, ripping the door open. Luther passively and slowly edged closed to the house. His siblings were crouched over her crying. There was ringing. Whispering. 

He _was_ going mad, wasn’t he? 

His family crowded his sister, and he stood, passive and a little pained. Luther knew this was going to happen, but that didn’t make it any less hard to see. Luther rings his hands together, circling his discolored skin on his palm with his thumb. His eyes scrunch at the smell in the room; a metallic one, a smell that’s so strong, so potent that you can taste it.

Oh. It wasn’t the smell. It was him. Luther blinks, wiping his free thumb on his tongue, revealing a drip of blood. Luther looks once more to his family, head tilted off and curious. Shouldn’t they be dragging her out of here by now? 

“She’s—“ Diego chokes on his words, “—dea-d!”   
  
Dead. Dead? Dead..? Allison was.. dead? Luther stepped, tripping lightly upon himself.

”Dead?” Luther said, mouth dry and tracking back. “No, she’s not—“ Tears form, but he can’t feel sad. He feels.. numb. “She’s not supposed to be _dead_!” Luther yells out incredulously. “She isn’t supposed to be dead. She’s supposed to be—“ 

Five’s head whips around, tears streaming. “Isn’t _supposed_ to be dead?” He says, words spit out like a dangerous venom. Luther takes a deep breath. Ringing. Whispering. Mumbling. Muttering. Giggling.

Cresent cuts in his hands. Cresent cuts in his arms. He shakily reaches for the handgun nestled in the waist of his pants. He sniffs, and squeezed eyes open. He breaths. In. Out. Inhale, exhale. Five’s voice is nothing but an incessant ringing like the rest. “I can fix this.” 

Five’s expression contorted in a miffed horror, “Luther, what are you—“

Luther breathes. “I wasn’t joking about the time loop, Five.” Luther says, head tilted, thin smile plastered on like previously. “See you soon.” He waves.

With a cock of the gun and an ear shattering shot, Luther restarts.

All that is heard is ringing. Whispering. Mumbling. Muttering. Giggling.

“Luther!”

Ringing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luther Headcanon of the Chapter: Luther is asexual.


	7. standing there for all to love(but i am not lovely)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luther wakes, once more, and decides to defy the timeline, and go straight to the cabin.
> 
> He really, really, wishes he didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but necessary, chapter.
> 
> [EDIT: finished writing the chapter and saw thenote i made while it was less than 300 words; ie. i was intending to end it there but lost inspiration.. it ended up at a little over 1500 words. oops?]

**Chapter Six: Standing There For All To Love(But I Am Not Lovely)**

* * *

_You have_ got _to start staying longer._

________________________________________

Luther blinks, holding on tightly to the crystalline alcohol bottle. He sets it down quietly, examining the room. He blinks once more, clearing his vision. He has a headache; probably to be expected after shooting himself, but all in all, he’s fine. Great. Good.

The house is quiet and cold, and while Luther expects Klaus to come and ask him to tie him up, Klaus doesn’t. Luther quietly retreats to his father’s office before Klaus finds him and gets the chance.

Luther’s rummaging in his father’s desk, having forgotten where he pulled the handgun from. The handgun was a dangerous object, yes, but essential. He didn’t exactly _know_ the aspects of the loop. He didn’t know how much time he had to restart before everything went to shit and fell apart by the seams.

Thus, the gun’s purpose to be on him at _all times._

A silver light catches his eye in the back of the cabinet and he pulls it out. The gun. He slips the silver object into the waist of his jeans before catching the clock on the wall. He definitely had enough time to get to the creep murder cabin before Allison.

The keys to their father’s old car that they used to get to social events and missions lay innocently on the living room table. Convenient. 

Luther trails out of the house without a word from any of his family, filing into the black car; memories of cramped space and arguments floating back to him. He sighs, huffing. Shoving the keys into the ignition, he turns them and drives off hurriedly.

He admits, he’s a little freaked. Or maybe more than just a little. He wasn’t looking for his family to start dying, one by one. 

He revvs the car engine, roughly turning to his back to check the mirror. Rapidly tapping his thumb against the leather and trying not to let the deep humming in his ears and head get to him. He had gotten shot before. Shot himself. It wasn’t bad. No injuries. Just.. leftovers. A numb feeling in the place that killed him. Humming. 

The road was cracked, paving grey twistily and unnaturally. The car was silent, if not _too_ quiet. All that stood was him, the car engine, and his thoughts.

His mind was reeling. Of course it was. What the hell did he change for Allison to die? He speeds the car up, pushing heavily on the steering wheel with his large weight. 

A soft wind blows in from an unnoticed open crack in the backseat. It whisps his hair and pale skin with minimal annoyance. The small, black handgun lay innocently in the cupholder, making slight clacks over each bump on the winding road.

Pulling into the rough driveway(could you even call it that?) Luther made no attempt to be quiet. Harshly grabbing the gun and slipping it between his knuckles, he ran up to the open doorway, scouring the wood room. Harold and Vanya were shouting in the hallway, his finger in her face, eyes enraged and seeing red. 

Luther made a quick turn, grabbing Harold from behind, crushing his arm horizontally, deep into the mans chest. Vanya’s eyes widen, and her mouth is ajar. She stuttered out an incoherent ramble of words, as Luther slipped out a small, quiet, _bare with me, Vanya_ or maybe it was _i’m sorry_. For what he was sorry for, Luther couldn’t remember. There was already too much. 

Luther breathes in out, in and out as he held the black gun to the passed out Harold’s temple.

Luther was shaking, to be expected in his situation, before pushing down on the gun click. But Harold didnt bleed like Luther thought he would.

Because it was Vanya who bled. Buckets of blood it felt like, as Vanya gave out a whimper, crumbling onto the dust ridden wood floors, groaning out in pain.

Her chest heaved in a weak attempt to slow the blood and she trembled under the harsh cabin light. Luther presses a hand to his sisters chest, trying to stop the blood, head running in circles and heart pumping faster than he thought it should.

Images flash against himself, against his will and what he _needed_.

Ben is dead and Allison is bleeding out, Klaus is crying on the floor, Diego has him held up against the wall, Vanya is dead.

 _Vanya is dead_. 

Luther pushes down on Vanya’s dead corpse, breathing in short, coupled huffs, trying to keep her alive, unaware that she was already gone. 

God watches from above, hands clenched against herself; be it the fabric that made up her silk dress, her pin straight hair or her sunhat. God rubs her eyes, frustrated and rightfully so, regretting letting the boy, the young, young boy, go on and do this mission alone. 

They had to do it at some point, just atleast one of them. Unlike what most would tell you, the timeline and world did spin and circle around their dysfunctional family. All of it depended on them. And it depended on the six of them alive(plus one ghost.) 

Of course, it wasn’t an easy decision, God already knew the events that took place, what was inflicted on who went and what would happen to each. All were equally scarred, all hurt and broken. Not many of the endings of their hardships were good, except for Luther’s, and only Luther’s. But it came at great cost, like most things did.

The boy, shattered and fixed up over and over, no matter his fraility, uneasiness and unstable conscious mental state, he was the only one to end it well. That didn’t reassure God at all, as they watched him shake his small, small sister, over and over, not clicking that she was gone and her heart had stopped, not clicking that she wasn’t his sister, knocked out and maybe majorly hurt, wasn’t clicking that she wasn’t much more than a corpse, a ghost, a shadow, of his alive sister.

Perhaps it was because he couldn’t; couldn’t take any of it anymore, and God knew that but they kept him repeating it, no matter who was to die or how many times he was to die, because _it just had to be_.

Unlike Ben, Vanya, although it felt like it, didn’t bleed much. That made it _so much worse_. She lay on the caramel varnished floor, a quite nicely done wood, eyes forced closed in Luther’s spurring, unstable, denial(or maybe it was recognition?) Her hair, still lightly shining under the white-yellow cabin bulb, although it really shouldn’t have anymore, was flat, and straight, like it always was.

Vanya’s hair, when they were young, was a little wavy, maybe a lot; Luther couldn’t remember anymore. It was definitely pretty, but Vanya liked to have it pin straight. She straightened it everyday, unbeknownst to their mother, before leaving a burn on her finger and crying out in the bathroom that, because she and Allison; named Two, at the time, were the only two girls, was their own.

Grace didn’t yell at her, or get angry, because that was how she was programmed, but to the young Hargreeves was because she was their mother, whole and perfectly real. Grace did minor first aid on Vanya’s burn, placing a light peck on it and Vanya’s teary eyes dried, as did the tear stains on Grace’s classic, perfect, yellow-white dotted circle dress. 

Vanya sat on her mothers lap, as Grace slowly and comfortingly, not patronizingly, pat and soothed Vanya, with a touch of the young Hargreeves girl’s head. Grace’s sweet, calm voice makes its ways into Vanya’s ears, in form of question. Grace asks, “Seven, dear, why have you been straightening your hair?”

Grace doesnt make any assumptions, letting Vanya speak for herself, turning the incident into an exercise to try and drag out Vanya’s emotions in a peaceful, positive environment, perhaps to better control on them and ultimately, her powers.

Vanya sniffs, lightly and adorably, in most’s opinion, quietly wiping her undried tears that resided on her cheek and the earlier fallen ones on her jaw, “I want straight hair like you, mommy!” Vanya spills out in a mix of embarrassed admission and hope.

Grace nods, continuing to rub slow, fainy circles on Vanya’s head with her thumb, before speaking words that cheered the little girl up. “Well, if you really want straight hair..” Grace trails off, and that was Vanya’s first straight perm. 

..It was much worse because Vanya lay, with her straight, shiny hair, like she was sleeping. Like she was having a spur of the moment, spontaneous one hour nap. Her clothes were ones that were for her practice, so it felt as of she dressed early and decided to sleep before the strenuous, though entertaining and enjoyful violin playing. 

Vanya was pale. Oh, so, pale. Like a vampire, they would tease sometimes, and more meanly say that maybe that was Vanya’s hidden power, and Diego would hit them and shake his head, muttering something about her ordinaryness.

Corpses were always, unusually so, or maybe not, because they were dead; pale. Grey, lightly sagging skin, depending on when they passed. Cold skin. It never ceased to creep the Hargreeves family during missions, discarding their killings with a shudder and throwaway thought of _they were criminals_. And again, Vanya was pale.

It added the unstable, uneasiness, settling uncomfortably in Luther’s mind, like a tick or worm that Luther wanted out. He would pick and pull at himself, try anything, vomit, starve, get medical help, just to get it out.

Vanya looked the same as she was as she was alive, not much different than the light gaunt shape of her face, limp body and frailness. ..Was she always this light? This.. small? Luther stopped, maybe to some, knocked put of his stupor, but really, falling into a grandeur sense, false lightbulb moment; thinking, because he was never close to Vanya, much less having hugged her—oh.

To answer his own question, yes. Vanya was unbelievably, frighteningly, light. 

Caramel varnished wood reflected Luther and his carefully dripped tears, water in his eyes that had to be used sparingly; either because there wasn’t much left, or because if he used too much there wouldn’t be enough for every time after the current.

As Luther mourned his sister, a thing that seemed to be a current trend in his rewinds, Harold wakes. He doesn’t spare any time, before taking one look at Luther, the corpse that lay on the floor and himself, his state and what happened. Taking the discarded gun, that lay innocently on the caramel varnish, he clicks the gun, unbeknownst to Luther, before lining up a precise aim.

Ready, Harold thinks, eyes thinned, lips pursed bitterly, aim.. fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luther Headcanon of the Chapter: Luther is a gardener! 
> 
> His little umbrella plant on the moon is growing nicely.


End file.
